


Stretched Out On Your Grave, I'll Lie Here Forever

by celedan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Curse Breaking, Cursed Thorin, Dark Magic, Difficult Dwarves, Eventual Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Bilbo Baggins, Kind of Fairytale, King Bilbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29662944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan
Summary: Thorin disappeared after the Battle of the Five Armies, in all likeliness dead. And so, since Bilbo is his husband, he becomes King Under the Mountain. How is he, a simple Hobbit from the Shire who just has his heart broken into a thousand pieces by grief supposed to rule over the grandest Dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth all on his own?!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 18
Kudos: 84





	Stretched Out On Your Grave, I'll Lie Here Forever

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by Kate Rusby's song “I am stretched on your grave”.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo swung Sting with all what remained of his waning strength. The hand holding the Elven blade in a death-grip was trembling, and he had to blink sweat and falling snowflakes out of his eyes. His knees felt like jelly, every single bone in his body ached. At this point, the only thing that had him still going on was his naked determination. 

Horrible images flitted before his eyes all of a sudden, haunting him at the most inconvenient of times.

Bilbo blinked heavily to blink the tears out of his eyes that suddenly added in blurring his sight, and in a new surge of rage- and despair-fuelled strength, he trust Sting into another Orc's eye. 

Fili. Oh Yavanna, no, Fili! 

His heart had almost torn in two when he had seen Azog's deadly blade tear through Fili's body, then dropped him from the cliffs like trash. Bilbo would never forget the shell-shocked look on Thorin's face when he saw his nephew fall. 

And Kili's fate was still unknown, but as it was, Bilbo feared the worst. He felt so helpless. There was nothing he, a lone, weak Hobbit could do to aid the younger prince.

The onslaught of Orcs waned for a moment, and Bilbo found a second to breath. Panting, he turned on his own axis, his wide eyes that were burning with salty tears, tiredness, and the biting cold looking for Thorin.

His breath hitched and his heart stopped for a few beats as he spied him on the frozen river, viciously fighting the white Orc as the two fighters danced and jumped from one precariously moving ice floe to the next in a deadly choreography.

Bilbo's feet started moving of their own accord as he wanted to rush over to help Thorin. The stubborn, proud fool could grouch and pout at him later if he wanted for Bilbo helping him in his It's-a-matter-of-honour-to-fight-my-mortal-enemy-alone duel, but right now, Bilbo had to be at Thorin's side.

He came to a slithering stop when Azog's blade suddenly slid into Thorin's flesh like a hot blade through warm butter, as effortlessly as the Orc's blade had impaled Fili.

A horrified wail got stuck in Bilbo's throat as time seemed to slow down for a moment. He was frozen to the spot, all life seeming to drain out of him with every drop of blood that was spewing from Thorin's wound. 

With a mighty roar that Bilbo could even hear from where he was standing, Thorin mustered up his last strength, raised his arm, and thrust Orcrist into Azog's heart.

They both fell to the ground, Azog's body quickly sliding from the floe he was standing on into the icy water until his body was crushed between two drifting, thick, sharp-edged ice floes so that he hang there like a discarded, creepy rag doll. Thorin lay unmoving on another ice floe.

White-hot pain raced through Bilbo all of a sudden, his head feeling as if it was on fire. 

Then, everything went black.

Groaning, the Hobbit came to. He saw the sky above him, and suddenly, a face came into his line of sight. His vision was blurry, but he recognised Dwalin's characteristic features.

Wincing with the pain pounding through his head like a sledgehammer, Bilbo struggled into a sitting position. 

“Easy there, lad,” Dwalin murmured, supporting him with his big hand. Bilbo froze. He had never heard Dwalin speak so gently. Ice-cold fear spread through every vein, turning his blood to ice before he could even grasp one single clear thought.

And then he remembered. 

Fili.

Thorin!

“Where...” he groaned, and managed to get back onto his wobbly feet through sheer determination, stubbornly swallowing down the nausea his fierce headache caused. Frantically, Bilbo's gaze was drawn to the frozen river, and hysteria slowly rose up inside of him. There was nothing there, the broken ice undisturbed once more! The only thing giving any indication that a fight of live and death had taken place there were the huge splatters of black and red blood staining the white snow and ice.

“No,” he whispered. “No!”

He moved completely on instinct, but after only one step, Dwalin's mighty arms locked around him, holding him back mercilessly. 

“Dwalin, let me go! Thorin!”

He struggled fiercely in the Dwarf's hold, but to no avail.

“Hush, calm down, Bilbo,” Dwalin rumbled into his ear, tightening his hold even more. He placed him back onto his feet when Bilbo eventually ceased his struggling. The warrior let go of him as soon as his feet touched the ground. Tears streaming down Bilbo's face, he turned around to frantically search Dwalin's face. “Tell me he's been taken away to get his wounds treated,” he begged, his voice breaking at the end into a sob. “Please, Dwalin, tell me. He's fine, right?”

Silent tears ran down the stoic warrior's face which was answer enough to Bilbo.

An inhuman wail got stuck in the Hobbit's throat, and he buried his face in his dirty hands. His knees gave out under him, and he sank to the ground. His sobs were muffled by his hands, but also by the furs of Dwalin's cloak as the Dwarf once more pulled him into his arms. 

Bilbo had no idea how he got down from Ravenhill onto the plain of Erebor, but at one point, he found himself stumbling into a hastily erected tent – one of many on the icy ground in front of the mountain, to treat the countless wounded. He blinked in the relative darkness of the tent's interior as his eyes got used to the abrupt change of light. A tiny spark of hope lit his crumbled heart when his vision finally cleared.

“Kili,” he breathed.

Upon hearing his name, the young prince spun around. He jumped up from the crate he sat on when he spotted Bilbo, his movements slow and jerky as if he was in pain, but at least, he was alive. Kili pulled Bilbo into a tight hug.

“Thank the Gods, you're alive,” Bilbo whispered, and buried his face in the dark hair, for a split moment giving himself to the illusion that it was another royal Dwarf's dark locks tickling his face.

Only when Bilbo pulled back did he realise that Kili had been holding vigil next to a makeshift cot where a deathly pale Fili lay, eyes closed, and sweat beading on his brow.

“Fili!” Bilbo squeaked in excited relief, but he didn't dare go nearer the injured prince in an irrational bout of fear that his sole presence could worsen Fili's precarious health.

A splash of green and ginger drew Bilbo's attention next as he spotted the Elven guard from Mirkwood sitting on Fili's other side.

“Tauriel and Gandalf saved Fili,” Kili explained softly since Bilbo's tired face must have shown his confusion. 

“A pity they couldn't save Thorin,” was at the tip of his tongue, but he bit his lip to hold the words behind his teeth since the accusations would only have been spoken borne out of grief and helpless anger.

Once more though, he must have been an open book to Kili because the prince threw him a watery smile.

“I wish he was here, too,” he whispered, and gently pressed his forehead against Bilbo's. “So much.”

Bilbo only managed a soft whimper in answer, and rather closed his eyes, for a moment revelling in the comforting presence of another.

A cold gust of air at his back told Bilbo that someone had come into the tent even before Balin cleared his throat.

“Bilbo,” he said softly, his calm voice echoing through the tent. “Please come with us. You are needed.”

That jostled Bilbo out of his grief-induced apathy, and he spun around to meet Balin's eyes. 

“What?” he breathed, confused.

The old Dwarf grimaced, and exchanged a quick look with first Kili, then Dwalin. 

“You see, lad...” He sighed, and shook his head. “There's no easy way of saying this...”

“You're the next king,” Dwalin bluntly took over from his brother, his words slicing through the air like something tangible.

Eery silence fell over the interior of the tent, not even the bustling noises from outside were reaching Bilbo's ears in that moment.

He blinked violently, even his all-consuming grief was pushed aside for the moment, and he wondered if he had heard Dwalin correctly. His head still hurt like mad, so he surely was hallucinating, wasn't he?

“When you and Thorin wed in Rivendell,” Balin started to explain, “You became King of Erebor. The marriage contract explicitly states that you and Thorin would have ruled as equals.”

Unbidden, images of different times suddenly flashed before Bilbo's eyes that now seemed a lifetime away. Moments of happiness, the happiest in his life, actually. His hand automatically flew to the braid behind his right ear, to the bead woven there. He vividly recalled the moment Thorin had braided the beautiful wedding bead, a family heirloom, into Bilbo's hair, and after, how the Hobbit had braided the matching bead into Thorin's dark main with trembling fingers. He recalled the carefree merry-making that had followed the ceremony in Rivendell, every Dwarf celebrating exuberantly, and even Thorin and Dwalin had let go of their grumpiness of having to endure the hospitality of Elves in favour of the joyous occasion. 

Bilbo shook his head to rid himself of the alluring memories. “But he isn't here,” he replied stupidly and helplessly like a child that couldn't comprehend the bigger picture. New tears were gathering in his eyes, but he was too stubborn now to brush them away. “We can't rule as equals.” 

“And that's why sole reign now goes to you, my lad,” Balin explained softly.

“I... I never knew what the contract said,” he babbled, sudden overwhelmed anger flooding him that he hadn't really understood what had been stated in his own marriage contract; anger at himself for living too much in the happy moment to care, and anger at Thorin for completely omitting that little fact. Maybe it hadn't mattered much to the Dwarf in that moment since they had both firmly believed that they would be together the many years to come. For Thorin, as a king, it had probably been the natural thing to assume that they would rule Erebor together for the rest of their lives – when marrying the Dwarf, Bilbo on the other hand hadn't actually thought about something like ruling a kingdom with his husband at all; that concept had been so far away in his imagination. It still was, to be honest... 

“I thought... He... Why did he want me to have so much power?!”

Frantically, he looked from one to the other, helplessly begging for answers.

“Because he – as we all do – knew you, knew your compassion and your fierce loyalty. He knew that you would do everything to be there for our people... Even without him.” Balin seemed to deflate with grief right before Bilbo's eyes at these last words. It had been a reasonable possibility, after all, hadn't it? One that had now come true in the most brutal of fashions...

A lump closed up the Hobbit's throat as he frantically tried to comprehend all that he had heard just now. And he wanted to curse Thorin for knowing him so well, knowing that he would never shirk from his duties and from what was right, no matter what happened. But he also wanted to curse the king for imposing on him this burden.

“And nobody can challenge your claim to the throne,” Dwalin's rough, deceptively matter-of-fact voice once more cut through the loaded atmosphere. “I never thought I would say this, but it's a blessing you two were wed in Rivendell. If Thorin had married you here in Erebor, while under the influence of the gold sickness, his actions could have been questioned, and your marriage written off as a mad king's fancy.”

Balin nodded. “The marriage contract, witnessed and signed by Dwalin, Fili, Kili, and myself, is proof of the legitimacy of your union. None – although many a Dwarf undoubtedly  _ will _ object – can do anything about it.”

“I don't want to rule,” Bilbo whispered harshly, his voice breaking into a coarse murmur in the end.

“It's our law.” Balin shook his head, not without compassion.

Bilbo shook his head in denial. “No, I...” He gasped suddenly, and turned to the still prince lying on his cot. “Fili is Thorin's heir. He should be king. He was groomed for it his whole life!”

“Fili is too hurt, uncle,” Kili softly said, suddenly standing close to Bilbo. “And he wouldn't want this. We actually discussed it in Rivendell in private. Thorin wanted  _ you _ to rule. And we agreed. Even if you may not see it, your good heart and determination will bring our people to glory once again.”

Bilbo whimpered. A small part of him filled with warmth as Kili called him “uncle” so naturally, but for the most part, he just felt horrified and completely overwhelmed. “I'm just a Hobbit,” he croaked. “I'm nothing special, and I don't belong here.”

Smiling  painfully, Kili once more pulled Bilbo close, and touched their foreheads together. 

“You  _ are _ special. Uncle saw it. We see it. You will lead our people into a new time, even without Thorin.” Gently, the young Dwarf, suddenly mature beyond his years, softly touched Bilbo's cheek, then placed his hand onto Bilbo's heart. “You're not alone. We are with you. All of us. And now go with Balin.”

Bilbo mutely obeyed without any further resistance, letting himself be led away by Balin, his gaze though still holding tight to Kili's pleadingly until the flap of the tent obscured his sight of his nephew.

“We are with you, lad,” Balin repeated Kili's words, placing a hand onto Bilbo's shoulder. “You're not alone.”

But Bilbo felt alone. In this moment, he had never felt as alone as he did now. Because the one being who should be with him right now – sharing the joy of victory, and starting a whole new life together – was not. He couldn't image ever filling the bottomless void of loneliness Thorin's loss had pried open in what remained of Bilbo's heart.

Bilbo felt as if floating on air. With wide, detached eyes he regarded his surroundings as he was led further and further from Kili and Fili's side through the devastation of the battle. He tried not to look down, tried to convince himself that the squishy feeling under his soles and between his toes stemmed from thawing ice turning the ground into mud instead of...

He tried not to look left and right at the broken, lifeless bodies of Dwarves, Elves, and Men alike, their dead eyes staring sightlessly into the sky. Even from the corner of his eye, Bilbo couldn't make out any Orcs though. Maybe for once, Elves and Dwarves had been of one opinion, and had gotten rid of the foul corpses lying between their own dead as soon as possible.

And Bilbo tried not to listen too closely to the cries of pain and wails of grief echoing all over the plane, tried not to inhale too deeply the stench of blood and death that lay heavily in the air.

Finally, he found himself in another tent, and his stomach dropped when he found himself face to face with Lord Dain, Bard, and King Thranduil, Gandalf hovering in the background. Surely the Elf and Man had better things to do than be present for whatever would be discussed here concerning the future of the kingdom of Erebor?

Swallowing heavily, Bilbo weakly sank into the offered chair (too high for him since, he only realised now, it was Thranduil's pompous tent that had been erected in Dale only yesterday). 

“We offer you our sincerest sympathy, Your Majesty. All of us,” Dain was the first to speak, and he inclined his head, the sorrow about his cousin's death palpable in his rigid stance and drawn face. Bard and Thranduil also inclined their heads, and even if Thranduil's gesture was barely perceptible, it was there.

Then, though, Bilbo realised how Dain had addressed. “No, I...” he protested weakly. “I'm not... I'm no king.”

Dain exchanged a look with Balin who Bilbo knew was standing behind him together with Dwalin. The Lord of the Iron Hills sighed heavily. 

“Look, Master Baggins... It's the custom of our people. Not all that common for a king to share his rule equally with their spouse, aye, but I trust Thorin to have known what he was doing.” 

The ginger-haired Dwarf cocked his head as he regarded Bilbo, still looking as menacingly as ever even if he tried to appear a little bit more appeasing. “I've got to admit, at first, I wasn't sure about you, what with all that I learned happened between you and Thorin. But he married you, and the whole Company vouches for you. That's enough for me. Know that you will have my support, no matter what happens.”

“But I don't...” Bilbo wanted to say, “want to be king”, but that would make him sound like a petulant child. Instead he said, “I can't be king. A Hobbit being ruler of a Dwarven kingdom?! That's preposterous. And anyway...” 

Bilbo felt new tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he didn't care that he was breaking down in front of three kings and virtual strangers.

“What if...” Frantically, he looked everybody gathered in the eye, searching wildly for something, knowing it was a futile, desperate hope that was driving him. “What if he somehow made it out alive? His body wasn't there. Maybe...”

“No, lad,” Dain interrupted him with a sigh, and sadly shook his head. “He must have fallen into the river. And although it flows only slowly heavily frozen like that, the drift will have swept him away by now. We...” Dain grimaced. “We'll probably never find his body. No chance before spring anyway to look, and by then, any cargo will have been carried away by the river hundreds of miles.”

A shock like cold water rushed through Bilbo, and he remembered that he had seen Azog tumble between the ice floes, only to be gone completely when Bilbo had awoken. It was only logical that Thorin had, too. 

He stared into the distance. The thought of Thorin's mangled body floating away from him into unknown lands was almost unbearable to him. For now, he was conserved by the cold, but when it got warmer... Bilbo had to swallow down the bile that tried to rise up in his throat.

He flinched when a big grey head suddenly came into his line of sight. Gandalf was kneeling before Bilbo, a compassionate, gentle smile on his face. 

“Bilbo. I understand that you hold on to any hope you can, but I had the eagles look for Thorin. They didn't find a trace of him. I'm so sorry, my boy, but he is really gone.”

Hot tears spilled down his cheeks anew, and Bilbo held in a sob that almost choked him.

“I understand,” he eventually managed, mustering up all his strength to compose himself again. 

“The further proceedings of this unfortunate affair are but your own,” Thranduil's melodious, almost bored sounding voice cut through the emotion-laden air, earning himself nasty glares from Dwalin and Dain. He ignored them, his sole focus on Bilbo. The Hobbit's reddened eyes looked up at the Elven king, not really knowing what to expect of him now.

“But know this,” Thranduil continued, and took a step closer. He spread his hands in a placating gesture, thus taking the wind out of Dwalin's sails whose body had twitched violently in preparation for an attack when Thranduil advanced on Bilbo. “You will have my support. If you are aware of it or not, you have done a lot for us all, Master Baggins. I haven't lived on Arda for thousands of years without becoming a good judge of character,” at that, Dwalin and Dain grunted sarcastically, but were both ignored, “and you, Bilbo Baggins, are a blessing for this kingdom. Maybe Erebor needed a warrior like Thorin Oakenshield to win this kingdom back with blood, but you will forge it anew in times of peace.”

Everyone stared at the tall Elf, completely speechless, and Bilbo wasn't all that sure if he should feel actually happy about Thranduil's words. But he nonetheless – whichever may be the king's intentions behind his words – realised the chance for peace he had been given here. Even half mad with grief, he knew that he wouldn't get another chance as precious. Therefore, he inclined his head, repeating the gesture to Dain who, after all, had promised him his support as well.

Last, it was Bard who stepped forth. He knelt in front of Bilbo to be on eye level with him, and Bilbo immediately felt at ease. Thranduil and Dain scared the living daylights out of him (or infuriated him, depending on the situation), but this simple man tried his best not to be intimidating or haughty. He was simply... human. 

“You can rest assured of my support as well,” Bard said, and smiled amicably at Bilbo.

The Hobbit swallowed heavily. “Any you mine,” he managed to get out.

Bard shrugged. “I have been forced into my role of king, much like you have been, even if under completely different circumstances. But if you wish, we can learn to be good rulers together.”

That elicited the first real smile from Bilbo for many days. “I would like that.”

Bard nodded and rose again. He bowed his head slightly which Bilbo returned. “I have to take my leave now. There are many wounded under the few people I still have left. I have to do all I can for them.”

“Bring them into the mountain,” Bilbo blurted out, but then snapped his mouth shut in shock. Fearfully, he looked at Balin who only smiled gently at him, and inclined his head before addressing Bard himself. 

“There's much that needs to be cleared away in the mountain, but we will at least manage to get the forges running again for warmth. Your people won't have to go cold these days.”

Bard, clearly surprised, but undeniably moved and grateful, nodded jerkily. “Thank you. I will organise everything.”

And with that, he swept from the tent.

“You too, Your Majesty,” Bilbo continued, feeling a little surer of himself by now. And they  _ did _ owe the Elves after all, may the Dwarves like it or not. “I'm sure your wounded would be much more comfortable out of the dreadful weather.”

Despite Dwalin and Dain (what was it with these two? Bilbo would have to have a serious conversation with them about diplomacy or at least courtesy these days) grumbling and groaning under their breaths, Thranduil inclined his head in thanks – maybe  _ because _ of their grumbling he accepted so readily as well.

Bilbo locked eyes with Balin who nodded his approval, and although Dain threw him a long-suffering sigh, he didn't look all that put-out. Gandalf, too, seemed pleased by Bilbo's decision.

Well, if he really had no choice, and they wanted him to play king, then so be it. The only thing Bilbo could do right this moment to not break apart with grief and desperation was to go through the motions. Always one step in front of the other.

He wanted to slide from the chair, and leave Thranduil in peace when the king unexpectedly dropped to one knee gracefully in front of Bilbo. The expression in the normally so haughty, cold eyes was surprisingly... compassionate all of a sudden.

“I know, Master Baggins, how you feel,” the king confessed softly so that the Dwarves around them wouldn't necessarily hear his words, and somehow, Bilbo just knew that it was something the Elf hadn't spoken of to any living soul in a long time. Maybe never. “To loose the one that is your heart, your world, is something few people, be they mortal or immortal, can ever overcome.”

Bilbo swallowed heavily. “How did you cope?” he asked, his voice suddenly raspy and broken as emotions threatened to choke him.

The handsome Elf grimaced slightly. “I haven't. The heartless creature you see before you now is the result of freezing one's heart to grief. I could have taken comfort in seeing my son grow up, but I did not. Instead, I shut the world out, of my realm and my heart. Don't repeat my mistakes, Master Baggins. Grief for Thorin Oakenshield for as long as you live if you must, but don't let the grief break you. Take comfort in ensuring the happiness of your people, and also in your husband's nephews who were like sons to him if I am not mistaken. Do what is necessary, but try to live.”

Blinking violently, Bilbo stared at the king, shocked beyond words for this incredibly private, heartfelt confession and advice – and in the presence of Dwarves no less.

He stared after the king even as he abruptly swept from his own tent to give them a few more moments to discuss what needed to be discussed. Thranduil would probably never be a well-liked being – or a nice person –, his centuries of being cold-hearted and closed-off hard to drop. But for Bilbo, the king would always be held in high regard since, with his advice and unexpected compassion, he had rendered him a favour today Bilbo would forever hold close to his heart in gratitude.

He let his gaze slide through the tent, the three Dwarves looking shell-shocked with their mouths hanging open, and their eyes wide as saucers. Even Gandalf looked amazed, and when he finally met Bilbo's eyes, there was an impressed, scheming twinkle in the wizard's eyes.

Finally, Balin snapped his mouth shut, and set into motion again. “Alright, lads, much to do. Brother, you oversee everyone getting into the mountain who can be transported there safely. And those who cannot be moved have to be made as comfortable as possible out in the open.” Balin ushered the other two Dwarves out of the tent, not without throwing Bilbo a paternal, proud smile before he turned away while muttering plans under his breath, “And I'll send for the marriage contract Elrond still keeps safe for us. Mahal knows we'll need it...”

And with that, Bilbo was left alone with Gandalf. 

All energy that had somehow brought Bilbo through this meeting suddenly bled out of him, and he seemed to deflate in his chair. He felt helplessness, fear, and grief creep up on him again, threatening to overwhelm him. He started to tremble violently, and his breathing accelerated. He flinched violently when a huge, warm hand was placed onto his lower arm. He turned startled, wide eyes up to Gandalf who had pulled another chair next to Bilbo's without him even noticing, and now sat next to him. With an encouraging nod, the wizard pulled forth a small pipe from his sleeve, and offered it to Bilbo. It was already filled with pipeweed, and through all the fog of his emotions, the painfully familiar scent of Old Toby reached Bilbo's nostrils. The Hobbit closed his eyes as he allowed Gandalf to lit his pipe, the comforting scent transporting him back to the Shire, right onto the bench in front of Bag End. And for a moment, Bilbo wished that he still sat there, and that Gandalf had never stopped by that fateful morning. He would still be there, living his boring, insignificant life, would never have met a ridiculously proud, grumpy Dwarven king whom he had madly fallen in love with, would never have known such all-consuming heartbreak...

But no.

Bilbo opened his eyes again, and took a deep puff, the sweet-herbal taste rushing through his whole being, warming him from the inside.

No. He wouldn't have wanted to miss what had happened, wouldn't have wanted to miss the brief love he and Thorin had shared even if that love now shattered his heart and his life into millions of pieces...

“I don't know how I'm supposed to manage being a  _ king _ , alone ,” he suddenly whispered into the amicable silence between them. 

Thoughtfully, Gandalf puffed on his own pipe for a few moments before he chuckled unexpectedly. “Although I was frankly shocked by Thranduil's words, my dear Bilbo,” at that, Bilbo snorted sarcastically, “I have to agree with him. I know you feel helpless right now, and you never imagined having to lead this life when you married Thorin, but you  _ will _ be good for Erebor and its people. I always told you, told every one of those foolish Dwarves, that there is more to Hobbits than meets the eye.”

Gandalf lowered his pipe, and turned his head to look at Bilbo directly. “I know you're scared, but you are not alone, and I know you will handle whatever task is set before you with flying colours. You are strong, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said beseechingly. “Stronger than you yourself may think, and if I have learned one thing in all my years on Arda, then it is that, in some mysterious way, everything will be fine in the end, somehow.”

“You speak in riddles again, old friend,” Bilbo snorted humourlessly since he couldn't imagine that anything would be fine again, not for a long time. The only choice he had was heed Thranduil's advice, to find comfort in those around him and his tasks even if he would have to mourn Thorin for the rest of his life. No. He wouldn't let grief break him. If nothing else, he owed it to Thorin to live.

He inhaled the weed's smoke determinedly, staring straight ahead while Gandalf did the same next to him.

“We'll see, dear friend, we'll see,” the wizard chuckled, an annoyingly self-assured lilt to his voice which Bilbo ignored.

That night, no songs of victory were sung. The only noises echoing over the plane of Erebor were the laments sung by the Elves that pleaded with the Valar to have mercy on the fallen's f ë as.

Bilbo listened to the lines – probably one of the only few non-Elves present who understood the exact words though you didn't really need to understand the Elvish language to grasp the meaning of the songs –, silent tears running down his face as he lay curled up in a corner of Fili's tent. 

The prince's injuries were still much too grievous to have him moved into the mountain, so at least for tonight, he was to remain out here. A couple of Dain's best warriors were positioned around the tent with Dwalin himself standing guard in front of the entrance, his face grim and determined, daring anybody to come too close to the royal family. He would not fail again where he believed to have failed Thorin. He owed it to his best friend and king to protect those he loved; Bilbo knew how deep the Dwarf's self-blame went.

And since Fili had to remain here, naturally, Kili wouldn't be parted from his brother's side. He was sleeping sitting up on the crate next to the cot. Tauriel was sitting on the ground next to Kili, her shoulder touching his leg, the two unlikely people finding comfort in each other's presence. And, after all, she had nowhere else to go.

Neither had Bilbo. These two young Dwarven princes were his family now. Being with them, he felt close to Thorin, and thus found at least a small shred of comfort in the dark of the night that didn't seem to want to end. 

The next day, Bilbo accompanied Kili as they carefully brought Fili into the mountain under Oin's watchful gaze, and up into the royal wing. After Bilbo had made sure that Fili was comfortably settled in the hastily cleared out rooms, he started wandering the mountain for a while. He felt lost and restless, completely overwhelmed with what was his life now, and how he was supposed to even start rebuilding this huge mountain back to its former glory – or even taking care of all these injured people. All he really wanted was to curl up somewhere in a dark place and submit to his grief. And for a little while, nobody actually disturbed him or took even any notice of him. Obviously, the news of Erebor's new king hadn't spread around yet among Dain's Dwarves.

His aimless wandering was cut short when Dwalin found him, a grim, reproachful look in his eyes about Bilbo's wandering off. The huge Dwarf didn't say anything though, just gave a chastising grunt, and then drew Bilbo's attention to a group of armoured Dwarves that accompanied him. 

“These are to be your personal guards,” he explained gruffly. “Dain gave them leave to remain in your services, and I picked every single one of them myself.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, that he surely wouldn't need personal guards, but Dwalin beat him to it by simply talking over him, “I would guard you personally so that you don't traipse into any more trouble, and maybe, in the future I will, but I have a whole mountain to protect for now.” Bilbo wanted to snort sarcastically that it was typical for Dwalin to think nobody else was capable of a certain task, and he knew, if Dwalin had been able to split himself in two, he would have taken over being Bilbo's bodyguard as well. He supposed carefully picking out these Dwarves was good enough for Dwalin at the moment. 

Dwalin turned to the guards who, much to their credit, didn't even flinch under his severe, still suspicious stare. “If they give you any grief, I'm sure you know how to handle them. After all, you handled our Company well enough either.”

Bilbo nodded, despite everything, trying to hold back a chuckle at Dwalin's intimidation tactics. He was still of the opinion that he didn't need guards, but if it allowed Dwalin to sleep any better, then Bilbo would accept their presence. And if nothing else, he could be one hundred percent sure that he could trust these Dwarves since Dwalin wouldn't have chosen them if he deemed them in any way a threat to Bilbo. There were probably enough Dwarves who soon would violently protest a Hobbit ruling the greatest Dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth...

So, if he came to think about it, maybe a little protection wouldn't go amiss in that case, Bilbo supposed.

He nodded to his new guards, trying to appear friendly, but at the same time like a real king, professional and dignified.

Uh, how that sounded.  _ Like a real king _ . Bilbo really doubted that that would ever happen, but nonetheless, he would do everything in his powers to do what was best for Thorin's people. As Thorin now sat amidst his forefathers in Mandos' Halls, he shouldn't have any need to be ashamed in front of them for the Hobbit he had taken as his husband.

Bilbo was pleasantly surprised and relieved when the stoic Dwarves inclined their heads in respect, and stood at attention. 

So, from that day on, up to four Dwarves followed Bilbo everywhere he went. It was strange at first, but, when he wasn't talking to them animatedly as soon as they had unbend a bit, he quickly learned to ignore them otherwise because he had more important things to worry about than his unease about bodyguards.

He threw himself into work every minute he could because it was the only way to hold his grief at bay as well as the nagging feelings of guilt that slowly ate at him from the inside that he had lost Thorin without ever getting the chance to make peace with his husband. 

Fortunately, there was enough work to be done for Bilbo to forget. Granted, he couldn't really help with clearing away the damage Smaug had caused, he simply wasn't strong enough to heave around rubble that weighed more than himself. Nonetheless, he lend a hand wherever he could, even if, for the most time, he surrendered any heavy lifting to Dain's people. They were a major help as well as the people of Dale that were staying in the mountain for now. Come spring, Bard would lead his people back to Dale to start with the rebuild there (Bilbo made a mental note to speak to Balin about paying Bard what had been promised to the people of Laketown; if they were to rebuild Dale, they would need the gold, and they were to be allies after all, were they not?). But soon, more Dwarves would arrive instead to make their home in Erebor, and then, they would rebuild the mountain even faster. 

Helping the healers came more natural to Bilbo although he had never actually been trained in the arts of healing. But he knew a lot about healing herbs, and while in Rivendell, he had talked with Elrond a lot about healing. That didn't make him a substitute for Oin, of course, but he did his best to assist the old Dwarf and the Elven healers that were staying here for the time being even if Thranduil had left by now, together with Gandalf. He also went out of the mountain with a hunting party to gather all the edible plants and roots they could find this time of the year. 

So, his days were not what was worrying him, no.

The nights though...

The nights were the hardest. The first day he returned into the mountain, in the evening, after a surreal, stressful first day, Bilbo had been led to the royal quarters. Obviously, they had been repaired hastily for his arrival, only possible in such a short time because they were situated far up in the mountain where Smaug had never bothered to roam. 

So, that evening, Bilbo had stepped into these rooms, completely alone, the heavy, richly decorated doors ominously falling shut behind him. For a second, he had felt like the first time he had been here. A small Hobbit alone in a mountain full of death, gold, and a dragon. Now, it was worse. Now, he felt truly alone. 

A warm fire burned in the fireplace, throwing flickering shadows onto the smooth marble and polished wood, the rich tapestries and thick furs laid out over the room. But Bilbo didn't deign to look at any of the splendid interior. Wanting to forget, he had heeded straight for the bed only to stop short before it. He didn't think Thorin had used these rooms while he had been under the influence of the dragon sickness, as much time as he had spend down in the treasury, but there it lay on the furs covering the bed: Thorin's cloak. Not the fur-lined coat he had worn when Bilbo had first met him in Bag End for this one had been stripped from him in the dungeons of Mirkwood. It was the dark-red cloak that had been given to him in Laketown. Even in that garish old thing, Thorin had managed to look regal. And now, it lay before Bilbo. Maybe Thorin hadn't left it here but one of the Company had tried to be kind on Bilbo, and placed it here as a comfort. Whatever was true, it  _ had _ comforted Bilbo. 

When he had lain in that too big bed, bitter tears wetting the sheets, and choked sobs echoing through the deserted room, Bilbo had clung to that cloak. It held Thorin's scent even though it was weak since he had worn it only for a short time. But it gave him comfort, and it held the loneliness at bay as well as the nightmares. 

And he didn't have anything else.

When the nights became too hard, when Thorin's scent started to fade from the cloak, Bilbo couldn't stand lying in that bed alone any more, so he curled up in front of the fireplace with the cloak covering him. And there, he would remember to fight off the loneliness. He remembered the few stolen moments he had had with his husband. Their wedding night in Rivendell, the best night of Bilbo's whole life. The brief but intense, precious moments snatched for themselves on the quest, far away from the others to have some privacy. Giving each other comfort through the bars of the Elven prison. Their time in Laketown. Bilbo even thought fondly on the one time Thorin had taken him on the mounds of gold down in the treasury, trapped in his madness, but nonetheless still caring about Bilbo's well-being... Before everything fell apart over one accursed stone, and Bilbo swore that he would somehow get rid of the Arkenstone, if it was the last thing he ever did.

His days were spend in sweat, his nights in tears. And when the day came to hold a symbolic burial for Thorin a mere couple of weeks later, Bilbo's pain shattered him all anew. He stood there, in the Halls of Mourning, detached and feeling like an empty shell – as empty as the sarcophagus he was standing in front of since he didn't even have a body to mourn and say goodbye to. He was surrounded by his friends and family who were sharing in his grief, everybody in their own way. But Bilbo couldn't spare them any thought. He couldn't care less about a barely healed Fili and Kili clinging to each other as they cried for their uncle who had been, for many, many years, been more their father than their uncle. He couldn't care about Balin's silent tears that ran down his anguished face. And he couldn't care about Dwalin staring stoically at the marble sarcophagus, his mighty body wrecked with shudders now and again every time he tried to hold back his sobs while his tears, angry, and full of pain, and shame, and shattering guilt ran as silently down his face as his brother's. Bilbo knew, as soon as he could think a little clearer again, he would feel bad for being so selfish, but right this moment, he didn't care about anyone's pain.

He spend the whole night weeping, declining his friends' offers of company, even his nephews'.

The scent of the cloak had faded for good, and that night, Bilbo threw it into the fire. 

Now there was only one thing he had left. The last reason Thorin had ever graced him with a gentle smile; the acorn Bilbo had found in Beorn's garden, rediscovered unexpectedly one evening in his old coat.

He clung to it like Thorin would have to the Arkenstone. During the days, it kept him sane when he could touch it in his pocket when it all became too much. And in the nights, he held it close, and sometimes talked to it as if it was Thorin lying beside him. He very well knew that this wasn't healthy behaviour at all, and for the sake of his people, Bilbo knew that he had to snap out of it. He couldn't allow himself to break. He wasn't the only one who had lost someone in that war, after all, and for the sake of his people and family, for the sake of Thorin's memory and legacy, he had to stay strong. He, as a king, didn't have the right to fall prey to his grief, Bilbo understood that now.

Who actually snapped him out of it was Thorin's sister who, stubborn as she was, arrived in the gravest depths of winter together with the bravest of her people – including Gloin and Bombur's wives and children, and Bilbo's spirits were lifted somewhat when he saw them happily reunited –, probably despite every sane soul's good advice, bringing provisions and other goods and necessary items they desperately needed in the mountain. 

She looked like a female version of Thorin, proud and regal, fierce and loyal. The second she laid eyes on him after she had released her sons from her fierce embrace, she had pulled Bilbo into her arms without any hesitation, murmuring soothing words of comfort, and in the shelter of her ice-caked, dusty travelling cloak, he had wept once more. She hadn't said anything, simply had let him keep his dignity, so when he'd finally pulled away, Bilbo had composed himself again as best as he could.

Later, they sat together in Bilbo's chambers, drinking tea that she had actually brought with her from the Shire; the gesture almost moved Bilbo to tears.

“The last time I've been here,” she suddenly said, looking around, “was when I was a little girl. These were my grandfather's rooms then.” She scrunched up her nose, and smiled fondly. “When I see them now, I only now realise how garish and pompous they are. Some impression you must have of us.”

Bilbo chuckled darkly along with her. “'M used to it by now,” he admitted, and she laughed at that, carefree and melodious.

“I imagine. Travelling with my brother must have been quite the experience.” She cocked her head and grinned, although even that cheeky grin couldn't completely hide the deep pain in her wise, shockingly blue eyes. “Couldn't have been so bad though since you went and married him.”

Bilbo ducked in slight embarrassment at her teasing, unable for once to feel any new surge of fresh grief at the mentioning of Thorin and the quest. Instead, a small smile managed to slip onto his face which he tried to hide in his teacup. 

“How did you know?” he asked her eventually. She looked questioningly at him. “That Thorin and I married.”

“Oh, that.” She once more scrunched up her nose, and put her teacup down with a soft clank. “He wrote me a letter months ago. Typical Thorin, you know, so I wasn't sure what to expect when I met you. But, don't get me wrong saying that, I like what I see so far. Therefore, I'm willing to forgive my brother for that letter.”

Bilbo moaned softly. “Do I want to know what he wrote in his charming manner?”

Dis cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, so as if she'd only waited for the opportunity to share the letter's contents with someone, complaining and gossiping about it, and thus feeling better by remembering her brother this way. “ _ Dis, I'm getting married. Just thought you should know. He's not a Dwarf. Thorin. _ ”

Silence reigned for a moment between them before Bilbo burst out into laughter. He laughed so hard that tears were running down his face, and he was so happy to shed tears for once that were not of grief. Dis joined in, and soon, the twin sounds of booming, slightly hysterical laughter filled the spacious royal quarters, and could surely be heard outside in the corridor as well. 

If he'd thought he'd met with disapproval from Thorin in the beginning of their quest, that was nothing to what the Dwarven lords put Bilbo through when they started arriving in the early spring with their entourage. The few lesser nobles Dis had brought with her hadn't dared to openly object Bilbo on their own – he had seen their scandalous looks though when they'd learned that a stranger would take the throne of Erebor, that one of their own had dared to marry outside their race –, but now, more and more of them flocked to the mountain with the slow thaw, foremost the lords of the other six Dwarven realms. The more of them arrived, the more the hostility rose towards Bilbo which was at times frankly shocking to the Hobbit. Truly, he was used to antagonistic, resentful Dwarves by now, but even Thorin at his best (or worst), hadn't shown him the amount of shocking hostility Bilbo was experiencing now. Unfortunately, he couldn't really hold it against them though. Dwarves were a suspicious and secretive lot, and he was sure that Thorin, before the quest, would have been among those who objected. 

It was tiring though. Especially when he had to subject himself to the mounting fights being unleashed among the Dwarven lords in a truly juvenile fashion. Day after day, what was supposed to be orderly council meetings turned into screaming matches more and more, most of the old Dwarves that were so set in their stubborn, bigoted believes and prejudices vehemently – and loudly – questioning Bilbo's right to rule Erebor. 

Often enough, he just wanted to fling the Arkenstone in their faces, and tell them to go to Mordor, they could have the mountain for all he cared. He felt so incredibly miserable in these moments that the only thing he could do then was cling to the acorn in his pocket for comfort – and to rein in his mounting temper at other times. Otherwise, he feared that his trembling fingers would have closed around the handle of Sting instead, and a civil war was the last thing Erebor needed. Because, if anyone could out-stubborn a Dwarf, then it was a Baggins with Took blood running through his veins. 

He didn't want this life, where he had to rule over a bunch of Dwarves that wouldn't accept him. Where he had to roam a mountain day in and day out, going about his tasks, without the love of his life at his side. Where he had to lie in a cold, lonely bed at night without a strong, furnace-hot body beside him that whispered words of love, and comfort, and passion into his ear. 

But he had accepted his fate, hadn't he? He would do it for Thorin, and he would be damned if he yielded to these stuck-up Dwarven rulers who thought they were better than others.

Also, like Balin had promised, Bilbo was not alone. Every time he had to face the Dwarf lords, he had his family at his back. And the Company, of course. Though most of the lords didn't really give those of them any heed that weren't of a noble family, it never stopped Bilbo's friends to fight for him fiercely, and sometimes even protect him from the nobles' physical wrath. 

Since Dis was here, she probably had become his most fierce advocate. She fought for Bilbo tooth and nail in the name of her brother, but also, true to her word, because she actually liked him, and thought he had done a formidable job so far in rebuilding Erebor. He was amazed and almost moved to tears about her brutally cutting words she hot-headedly threw at the other Dwarves like the most efficient weapons, reminding them of Bilbo's grit and loyalty, of his compassion and righteousness. And when he asked her later, she only shrugged. “My brother wouldn't have married you if you weren't someone special.” 

So, that was that.

When Dain eventually returned to Erebor, having had to leave soon after the battle to care for his own realm, Bilbo had another follower and friend, just like Dain had sworn he would. Dain and Dis together, backed up by Dwalin, were forces not even the most stubborn Dwarf lords would dare to reckon with. So, for a while, their furious grumbling calmed down, and they grudgingly accepted Bilbo being their new High King if they didn't want to have their heads cleaved right from their shoulders – not that they could do anything about it anyway, as Balin rubbed under their noses at every opportunity together with the marriage contract that was proof of Bilbo's legitimate claim to the throne.

Eventually, the heated mood calmed down somewhat, and they all could direct their energies to more important tasks again. Bilbo still faced some opposition, and although he didn't exactly want to make himself to the Dwarven lords whose bad opinion of him he gave a damn about, Bilbo swore that he would at least somehow earn their acceptance. But most importantly, he would do everything he could to prove himself to his people. For Thorin's memory, he wanted them all to respect him so that he could make his husband proud if he maybe was allowed a glimpse onto Middle Earth's happenings once in a while.

One afternoon, Bilbo managed to get a little free time since Dis and Dain were running things for him. Normally, he wouldn't shirk his duties, especially under the watchful eye of the lords, but there was something important he had to talk about with Dwalin.

“I want you to teach me to fight properly.” 

The tall Dwarf looked down his nose at him, and scrutinised him from head to toe. 

“You want to earn their respect,” Dwalin stated eventually.

Bilbo started squirming, and averted his gaze. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Well, maybe  _ respect _ is too much. Acceptance rather. At least I want to show them that I can be a proper warrior although I'm a Hobbit. That's important to you lot, right?”

Dwalin cocked his big head. “Lad, you don't need to proof that. We all know that you can hold yourself in a fight.”

“I wouldn't call my blundering fighting, but anyway,  _ they _ don't know. They all see me as a wimp. They may have had to accept that I will be their king, but I can't live my life here when I will be met with open hostility day in and day out. The lords may go back home soon, but what about the lesser nobles that will stay here? And all the other Dwarves? They must see me as a lost cause, and I'm sure half of my warriors think it a disgrace to serve someone like me.”

Dwalin actually growled at Bilbo, and the Hobbit took a step back in surprise as he was yanked out of his worried ranting. Wide-eyed, he looked up into Dwalin's furious face.

“They don't,” Dwalin snarled fiercely, and then, he went down on one knee in front of Bilbo. His fierce expression gentled all of a sudden. “You have no idea, do you?”

“What?” Confusion marred Bilbo's features.

“You have no idea how they see you. They revere you. A lot of them were in awe of you for what you have accomplished on the quest even before they knew you personally.”

Bilbo wanted to object that they surely meant Thorin, and what was there to be awed about betraying one's own husband to the supposed enemy?

“But you know what,” Dwalin continued, like so often not giving Bilbo the chance to raise a, in his opinion surely stupid objection, “since you've been here, you've earned their respect anew all over again. You may not see it the way you are running yourself ragged, trying to help, trying to be there for everyone who needs it, but our people love you, Master Baggins.”

Swallowing heavily, Bilbo stared at the warrior with wide, astonished eyes. Surely that couldn't be? He wasn't doing anything remarkable.

“And your warriors, Your Majesty,” Dwalin continued, shockingly addressing Bilbo as his king for the first time ever, “they love you. Even a warrior, myself included, can see the worth of a person who is not one, and respect them for it. Nonetheless, you  _ are _ a warrior, no matter what you may think of yourself. Nobody thinks less of you!”

“Except the nobles,” he mumbled, completely fazed by Dwalin's words, and the long speech the stoic warrior had given; Bilbo couldn't recall Dwalin ever talking so much.

The Dwarf let out a barking laugh. “Yeah, lad, but they're stupid anyway.”

That caused a small grin to tug at Bilbo's lips. “I suppose so.”

“So.” Dwalin rose back up to his feet, once again towering over Bilbo. “You still want your fighting lessons?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Dwalin gave a jerky nod. “Good. But I think it would be best if you take your lessons with the princes...”

Wide-eyed, Bilbo looked up, taking in Dwalin's huge, muscled body. He hadn't thought of that. He surely wouldn't survive a training with Dwalin! “Yeah,” he croaked. “That would probably be sensible.”

“Good,” Dwalin repeated. “I will oversee your training for a while at the beginning. Make sure those brats actually teach you anything useful instead of causing trouble.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Bilbo grinned, even though they both knew that he could handle the princes very well on his own.

“That's settled then,” Dwalin growled.

It was not only fighting properly Bilbo was learning – which was going rather well if he dared say so himself. One day, he found himself in a secluded corner of the library, bending over a book together with Ori who had been ordered by Balin to teach him Khuzdul.

“Do you really think I have the right to learn your language?” Bilbo suddenly asked softly. Hesitantly, he looked up, and was met with a fierce glare from gentle Ori. 

Deceptively calm, Ori laid down the children's book which he had used to teach Bilbo basic Khuzdul. Bilbo actually started to squirm under that gaze.

“You are a Dwarf, Bilbo. You have the right to learn Khuzdul.”

“I'm not a Dwarf!” Bilbo protested, because, frankly, he had been surprised when Balin had told him he would get Khuzdul lessons with Ori. But since nobody had explained anything to him, and instead simply send him to the young Dwarf's realm in the library, Bilbo had yielded to his fate. And actually, he was quite excited to get the chance to learn the sacred Dwarven language.

“You are,” Ori disagreed. “The moment you married Thorin, you became a Dwarf. Simple as that. The lords may not like it, but it's the law.”

“Oh, okay then,” he said lamely, and turned his gaze back down onto the open pages in front of him, rectangular runes staring up at him.

“And I suppose it can't hurt for the king to actually understand a word to get through his own coronation,” Bilbo added eventually.

Ori grinned. “Exactly.”

That was a point Bilbo hadn't actually thought about before; having to understand Khuzdul for his coronation. But as he thought more closely about it, it made sense. Dwarves were a very traditional people, and held things like rituals in high esteem. Everything they did in at least a halfway official way was connected to a ritual of some kind. So sure there would be some ritual lines in Khuzdul he had probably respond to. He didn't know yet since the coronation was still a couple of weeks away, and he first had to grasp the basics of the language.

Since he had a knack for languages, his lessons fortunately went well. He could already hold basic conversations about the weather for example. Reading and writing was much harder, but that wasn't that high of a priority at the moment.

The boys had even taught him Iglishmêk, the Dwarves' sign language, since the princes thought that knowing how to swear silently behind people's backs was always a good idea – debatable if you asked Balin, though Bilbo tended to agree with his nephews. Especially were the obnoxious lords were concerned.

By now, the history of Erebor had been added to his lessons so that he would be better equipped to rule the kingdom, but when he had started with his Khuzdul lessons in winter, that hadn't been a priority – back then, things like seeing people sheltered and fed had been the most important thing. 

The year had reached the height of summer. Even that high in the north, the weather became pleasantly warm most of these days, and Bilbo found himself enjoying the sun on the balconies of the royal quarters as often as he could in his rare free time. Starved for the warm rays of the sun and fresh air, his gaze roamed hungrily over the plain of Erebor. His heart beat a little faster when, looking closely, he spotted soft green hues among the dull grey stone that had once been the desolation Smaug had caused. Now, as if the land had realised it was freed of the dragon's toxic influence, it tentatively started waking up again. In just a couple of years, Bilbo was sure, the lands around the mountain would be unrecognisable.

He was amazed how fast time had gone by even though he sometimes experienced moments when he thought he walked through molasses. It surely couldn't have been over a year already that he had stormed out of Bag End to race after a bunch of annoying Dwarves, could it? Apropos... he really should make some enquiries about the state of his property. By now, surely the damned Sackville-Bagginses had usurped Bag End. Dear Yavanna, what a nightmare to just think of the legal actions he had to take to get them out of there again – something he hadn't had the time nor the mind to deal with until now.

Erebor was buzzing with activity now. The grand markets inside the mountain had opened again since a huge amount of Dwarves had returned to live here to pursue their trade. Dale, too, was starting to prosper once more as news spread in Middle Earth that Erebor and Dale were almost back to their former glory. Curious merchants from all over were arriving every day, turning Dale back into the bustling trading point of old, benefiting Erebor crucially as well.

Often enough, the Dwarves returning to Erebor was what made Bilbo take heart, and what made him push through when he doubted himself once and again. There were the obnoxious nobles, of course, who – some of them at least, a good many were a decent bunch though, mind you – had led a rather well off life. Some had been even better off than the family of their late High King who had to swallow his pride more than once in the past decades to seek work in the human villages, unappreciated and underpaid just to ensure that his family didn't starve. He who had given everything for his family and his people without ever receiving much support from the other royal families – and that was a fact that enraged Bilbo to no end on behalf of his family. Just thinking of his proud husband having to practically beg Men and other Dwarves to ensure his family's well-being, the thought of his nephews having to go hungry when they had been just mere babes, made Bilbo nauseous.

Naturally, the nobles had a right to make their home here again also. But what really made Bilbo realise that he had to go on, that he had to fight for Thorin's legacy with all his power, were the common Dwarves that hesitantly but eagerly returned. There were so many, once proud and unbroken, who now turned up at the gates of Erebor, some clothed in nothing more than rags, some of them half-starved, the old ones with tears in their eyes that they were granted to see their home for a last time, and the younger ones humbled that they had a home they could call their own for the first time in their lives. 

More than once, Bilbo came down to greet them personally while other times, he hid in the shadows to watch their arrival as he couldn't bear to face their strong, heartbreaking emotions which, under normal circumstances, they would never have shown so openly. He had never truly realised how hard the last decades had been for Erebor's people. The scattered conversations he had overheard on the quest about a hard life hadn't done reality justice. But to now see for himself how bad off a lot of Thorin's Dwarves were (and surely, had Thorin known just  _ how _ poor and desperate his scattered people were, even poorer than he had been, he surely would have attempted the quest much sooner) drove the point home with a vengeance. It was humbling for Bilbo, who had never known hardship or homelessness. 

Much to his relief, he found that the newcomers were grateful to him – to  _ him _ of all people! He had been a bit worried about his people's reactions judging by how the nobles had reacted to him. But, astonishingly, they didn't care that their king was a Hobbit, only that he could provide them with a home at last. As if it hadn't been Thorin's doing, his sacrifice, in the first place that made sure they could return into the halls of their ancestors. Bilbo never tired of reminding them all of what Thorin Oakenshield had done for them, even if he slowly started to realise what Dwalin had meant, and what Balin and Bofur tried to tell him all the time; that  _ he _ had made sure to turn these halls of the dead Thorin had re-conquered back into a home. The Dwarves of Erebor were witnessing with their own eyes day in and day out how tirelessly Bilbo fought for them in Thorin's name although, basically, with his husband dead, nothing really held him here any more. He could have just gone back to the Shire, and leave the ruling of Erebor to the Dwarves. There hadn't even, in the first place, been any good reason for him, a stranger, a member of another race, to accompany a group of Dwarves all these months ago just to give them a home – but it was a fact his Dwarves gave him great credit for, some even told him themselves how grateful they were for his compassionate and caring act. 

And so, Bilbo Baggins was finally starting to belief that he could be a benefit for Erebor.

Bilbo balled his sweating hands into fists. Behind the huge doors to the throne room he was awaited by the whole of Erebor.

Although Bilbo had become king the moment Thorin was declared dead, they had waited with an official coronation. There had been more important things like simply surviving and rebuilding the mountain during the first few months. But also, they had to wait for the other six Dwarven rulers to arrive. Their presence was but a symbolical matter (another of these old traditions), but it was expected that they acknowledge their new High King who, theoretically, united all seven realms under his rule.

He had to withstand the urge to wipe his sweaty hands on his brand new robes. No matter how many provisions Dis and the other caravans had brought (whatever use the people of Erebor were supposed to have for pompous trinkets some lords had brought instead of much needed necessities), and no matter that trade was starting to prosper again, resources were still a bit scant. Not only provisions were still rationed to a certain amount, but clothing was another aspect they had to limit themselves in. To keep warm for the winter, they used what they had found within the mountain, though the garbs found there had been old and dusty. It hadn't bothered Bilbo much (and him of all people saying that! A year ago, he would have laughed hysterically at the hapless person telling to his face that he didn't care about his wardrobe), he had made do with what they had, just like the others. 

But now, he was outfitted in brand new robes Dori had bespoke just for him, using a mix of fabrics and materials that had been stored in the mountain still in a pristine condition as well as newly acquired fabrics from the markets. He felt strange, though it felt good, too, to wear proper clothing again like a reputable Hobbit was wont to do. His new breeches in a midnight blue fit him perfectly (in a respectable Hobbit length since Bilbo adamantly refused to wear long trousers and boots, Dwarven king or no king, thank you very much), the fine quality of the fabric feeling good against his skin, and he finally felt like a proper Hobbit again. 

Well. 

The rest of his outfit didn't exactly contribute to that feeling since Bilbo wore a classic Dwarven tunic in a dark blue the colour of Durin's crest, the hems decorated with magnificently intricate stitchings made from shimmering gold thread. Peaking from beneath the tunic, he wore Thorin's last present to him, the mithril shirt, both as a symbol of strength that was reinforced by having Sting strapped to his belt, as well as a sign of the love and regard his One had shown him by gifting him this priceless item. A long dark blue – almost black – cloak with white fur trims fell from Bilbo's shoulders (he dearly hoped it wasn't the pelt of Azog's white Warg!), held together at his throat with a clasp depicting Durin's crest that also could be found on the buckle of his wide belt. 

Behind his right ear, he wore, of course, his marriage braid with the sapphire-encrusted mithril bead holding it in place, and in a couple of minutes, as a part of the ceremony, another braid would be woven into his hair on the left side as sign of his station as king. One ear was adorned with a filigree golden ear clip that ran all the way up the shell of his ear from the lobe almost to the pointy tip, similar to what Dwalin sometimes wore to cover up the missing chunk of his ear (actually, Bilbo thought it a bit over the top since he would also have a crown placed on his head and a second bead in his hair, but try arguing with Dwarves on too much jewellery, the vain lot; and don't let's get started on the ankle bracelet and rings on his fingers!). 

The new robes felt like an armour to him all of a sudden, and Bilbo could actually breathe more freely. He felt his racing heart calm down as the heavy doors to the throne room opened for him. Sucking in a last deep breath, straightening up to his full height, Bilbo focussed his gaze onto the throne at the far end of the hall beyond the stone bridge that separated the throne from the rest of the hall. 

Bilbo's feet set into motion as if on instinct, and the Hobbit was grateful for it for he feared that his nerves would make him stall.

Hundreds of eyes were turned solely on him, but he tried to ignore them. From the corner of his eyes though, he could make out a few familiar faces as he passed the crowd; Dwarves he had worked with while rebuilding the mountain, Bard, Thranduil, and even Elrond and the Lady Galadriel had come to show their support of Bilbo's reign. At the front stood Dis and the Company, and Bilbo even managed a small smile for them despite his nervousness.

His knees felt like jelly when he crossed the vast stone bridge, all the while praying that he didn't faint with nerves and tumble into the abyss – now that would be embarrassing, and would surely make sure that King Bilbo of Erebor was never forgotten in all the generations to come.

Accompanying him were the voices of a Dwarven choir raised in solemn, ceremonial song; singing the Song of Durin Bilbo would be later told, as was tradition to sing at the coronation of a new king to sit upon Durin's throne.

A soft sigh of relief escaped him when he made it safely to the other side where, in front of the throne, he was expected by the six Dwarven rulers. Most of them had grudgingly come to terms with Bilbo becoming their High King – fortunately –, and had actually admitted that Bilbo did rather well. Even if one or two still looked a bit disgruntled behind their splendid beards.

And finally, Bilbo turned towards Gandalf and Fili. Both of them smiled at him, and he felt a weight drop from his shoulders. 

Bilbo experienced what followed as if through a fog. He heard Gandalf start speaking, his booming voice carrying even into the farthest corner of the throne room. What it was the wizard said exactly, Bilbo could not tell, but he was glad that he knelt down on one knee exactly as he heard his cue. Fili, as his heir, stepped forward, bearing a filigree tiara on a dark blue velvet cushion. Bilbo had known Fili and Kili would forge him a new crown, one that would fit much better among his golden curls, which was not as pompous as most Dwarven crowns. And Bilbo was relieved that he wouldn't be forced to wear that garish thing Thorin had adopted as his own as soon as they had won the mountain back from Smaug; it had only brought ill luck to the last kings, and Bilbo never wanted to see that thing again.

Gandalf, starting to say the traditional verses in Khuzdul (and Bilbo could almost hear the grumbling of the Dwarven rulers behind him at the wizard speaking the secret language) while he picked up the crown, its polished golden surface and the embedded sapphires and diamonds shining in the light of hundreds of candles and torches. 

Gandalf placed the tiara onto his head as Bilbo answered the wizard at the right point, his voice a bit wobbly, but nonetheless strong and carrying through the whole hall, and his tongue mercifully didn't trip over the single sentence in Khuzdul he had to say. 

The crown firmly in place, Fili then stepped forward, as a representative of the house of Durin, and started braiding Bilbo's hair, eventually securing the new braid with the mithril bead that had also been created by the princes of Erebor.

When Bilbo finally rose, and turned to face his subjects on the platform beyond the bridge and up in the galleries above, they all bowed deeply, even the Elves inclining their heads, and from the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see the six rulers bowing as well, much to his relief.

“Long live the king!” Gandalf said loudly, and a truly deafening answering chant from all Dwarves present surged through the hall like a wave.

And then, all of a sudden, it was over. 

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire was King Under the Mountain.

He felt slightly faint, and was only too glad that Fili swept him up into an exuberant embrace, and led him back over the bridge to celebrate. 

Surrounded by his friends and family, he was led into the great hall where a feast was waiting for everyone.

To be truthful, Bilbo wasn't really in the mood for a magnificent celebration, but everyone insisted. In the end, he had simply yielded, even joking that it would be a shame for a proper Hobbit to spurn a party. And when he looked around now, at young and old, noble and common, Dwarf and Man, he realised that all of them needed this. They needed this celebration as a starting point for a truly new beginning. Maybe he did, too.

But his heart wasn't in it. Not really. Thorin should have been the one everyone celebrated on this day, not Bilbo. Thorin was supposed to sit next to him now, splendidly wrapped in royal garbs, proud and solemn, but with pride shining in his eyes about all that he had accomplished here, and with a warmth in his eyes for the ones he loved that it always took Bilbo's breath away to see that smile. 

Instead, he felt alone as every single soul around him celebrated.

That night, when Bilbo returned into his lonely quarters, he headed straight onto the huge terrace outside his rooms. Warm summer air gently caressed his face as he stepped outside, and it was warm enough, even so high up in the mountain, to discard his cloak.

His hand slipped into his trouser pocket where the tips of his fingers bumped against the smooth surface of the acorn. He closed his fist around it, and a determined frown buried itself between his brows. 

Right in the middle of the terrace, a big hole had been hewn into the tiled floor, and it had been filled with rich, black soil from the Shire.

Heading over to that spot briskly, Bilbo dropped to his knees, not caring about his splendid robes. With his bare hand, he dug a hole into the soft, moist earth before he gently deposited the acorn there. With both hands, he scooped the earth back into the hole, covering the acorn completely.

This was a task he had wanted to accomplish for weeks now, but he'd never had the heart to do it.

Tonight, he finally could.

If the whole of Dwarvenkind could begin anew tonight, so could he.

Gently burying the acorn beneath the soil, he, at the same time, buried all of his pain that had held him in a stranglehold these last few months. And finally, Bilbo really felt as if he could now let go of Thorin together with the buried acorn. His whole being suddenly felt lighter, and peace settled over him; a feat which the official funeral so long ago had never managed. 

He knew that the yearning for his husband would always remain, but nonetheless, tonight, under the glittering stars, he decided to live.

He refused to end like his mother whom he had watched day in and day out after his father's death as she had fallen apart. In the end, she simply withered away. For far too long, Bilbo had doubted and wondered how he was supposed to manage pulling through when even a strong person like Belladonna Took had perished with grief, but he had found his own strength – rather unexpectedly, that is to say – from the moment on he had run out of his door at Bag End, and now, he would continue to be strong.

His first official act as king was sealing away the Arkenstone deep into the bowels of the mountain, giving it back to where it had come from. He was met with violent protests from practically every Dwarven noble that was currently residing in Erebor, even Dain. 

Bilbo's fist hitting the grand table of the council table actually managed to shock the loudly protesting Dwarves into silence. Agape, they stared at their king who glared fiercely at them.

“All the suffering these lands and its people had to endure is partly the fault of this accursed stone,” he spat. “From now on, I want it to be known not as the king's jewel to the generations to come but as the king's bane.”

“You can't do this!” one of the lords cried.

“It is the greatest treasure of our people!” another exclaimed, and jumped up from his seat.

“It's the symbol of your rule,” Dain reminded him.

But still, Bilbo glared at them all, unmoved.

“Is it really?” he asked, cocking a challenging eyebrow. With the utmost dignity that nonetheless barely held contained all the fire he felt blazing inside of him, Bilbo rose as well, looking everyone present in the eye. “Tell me, where have the times gone that great deeds made up a true king instead of a glittering bauble? Thorin Oakenshield proved that he was such a king. He won this mountain back. He broke the curse of the gold-sickness lying over Durin's line, and in battle, he became the king that will be sung about in songs even a thousand years from now on. He will become legend, but surely not because of the Arkenstone.”

The Dwarves blinked at Bilbo, their mouths hanging open in shock and wonder, and for once, neither had anything to say.

In the utter silence, Fili rose from his seat next to Bilbo, and addressed the Dwarves.

“My uncle is right,” he said, his firm but calm voice echoing through the chamber. “Thorin was such a king, and Bilbo Baggins is such a king who will lead Erebor and its people back into prosperity. And I will want to become such a king, too, who'll be measured by the grand deeds he accomplishes. Never again shall there be a king on Erebor's throne who derives his right to rule from the possession of a jewel that has been handed down to him from his ancestors.”

A second of silence reigned over the room, then, the members of the Company jumped up, agreeing with Fili and Bilbo with a loud, excited battle cry. And all Bilbo could do was stare at Fili. Not only was he touched by the deep trust his friends and family showed him which once again motivated him to give his best, but in that moment, he was so incredibly proud of Fili. He couldn't have wished for a better future king of Erebor, and he dearly wished Thorin had seen his nephew right now.

The second thing Bilbo did right this day after his coronation was give the Gems of Lasgalen back to Thranduil.

“I understand now,” he said softly as he handed the jewels to the Elven king in a private meeting. “And I will try.”

Giving Bilbo a soft smile, and accepting the gems with surprising gratefulness, Thranduil nodded. 

Don't let it ever be said that being a king – in times of peace, at least – was a glorious job.

Soon after the coronation, the daily grind of running a realm brutally set in for Bilbo. 

Before that, they had all operated in various states of exception, and basically simply muddled through; somehow feeding all the Dwarves and providing shelter for all of them had been more important than the petty quarrels of the guild masters or other mundane matters that were gradually becoming important again in normal every day life if the mountain was to function like well-oiled gears from now on.

It was a bit sobering for Bilbo, if he had to be honest.

One thing he had to officially think about was appointing his advisors, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't trust these positions with people he actually, well, trusted. His friends all deserved the positions Bilbo had in mind for them; all of them had proven themselves time and time again on this quest, certainly more than some nobility Bilbo could name. 

Naming Dwalin as head of security was easy, of course, since he had been acting in this position from the start out of necessity, and because he had always been Thorin's bodyguard, therefore being the best of any soldiers Bilbo knew. 

And of course, Balin was to be his chief advisor, together with Fili as Bilbo's heir. 

Learning that Nori wasn't only good at pilfering the odd knickknack but at operating stealthily and in secret as well had come as a surprise to Bilbo. Having a spymaster at his beck and call therefore wasn't something to scoff at. 

Since Gloin had managed the Company's accounts, and before that, had practised this trade in the Blue Mountains already, Bilbo was only too glad to name him Royal Accountant and Master of the Treasury since he was, frankly, quite amazed and shocked what managing a realm's finances included – from generating income for the mountain through the mines and forges for example to overseeing the crucial trade in general. He was assisted by Bofur who, despite his sunny, carefree personality, had discovered that he wasn't only good at making toys – his original profession – but also at supervising all kinds of necessary supplies being acquired for Erebor while Bombur was specifically responsible for acquiring provisions, and, of course, he was Royal Head Cook. 

Naturally, Oin was to become Royal Healer, overseeing the slowly prospering healing wings that would have even impressed a renowned healer like Elrond.

Bifur on the other hand did not want to be involved in any politics (therefore, he was probably the wisest of them all, Bilbo surmised); he was happy with opening a toy shop, and thus picking up the business he'd had running with Bofur before they had left Ered Luin. As far as Bilbo knew, his wares were incredibly sought after in Dale, and he made a mental note to maybe facilitate a trade route between Erebor and the Shire – there were enough children in the Shire who would be thrilled with Bifur's incredible creations. 

Dori, likewise, didn't want to sit on the council like some of the others automatically did through their posts (making Bilbo unspeakably happy that he didn't have to be alone with the nobles in council), but he nonetheless accepted the position as Royal Tailor quite proudly. 

And Ori, gentle, fierce Ori had become Bilbo's personal scribe early on already. He needed someone in this position he could trust implicitly, especially since he wasn't that fluent in writing and reading Khuzdul yet. And since both of them loved books so much, Ori had been granted the position as Head Librarian as neither Ori nor Bilbo actually trusted any other to treat the treasures found in the library with the care they needed and the reverence they deserved (for most of the other Dwarves, the library hadn't any priority at the moment – or at all – anyway).

Although it was winter now, the acorn sprouted, and soon grew into a strong young sapling which Bilbo nurtured with all he had, letting the hope of this new life suffuse him. 

Often, as the oak grew and grew remarkably fast, Bilbo sat next to it, and after only a couple of years even underneath its strong trunk and lush canopy to soak up the peace the presence of the tree offered him. He somehow felt closer to Thorin being near the oak. Leaning back against the tree, the bark felt almost warm, and he felt as if in a comforting embrace. And more than once, he sought refuge here. Sometimes even in the middle of the night or the early dawn when he would miss Thorin the most. When he awoke with a start, driven from his sleep by memories of his husband, his body contorted in arousal and yearning, his own touch couldn't possibly ever bring him any satiation after such a dream, just unsatisfied relief. Therefore, Bilbo took comfort in the presence of the tree, ignoring his natural bodily urges over time since it only broke his heart anew. He never wanted to lay with anyone but Thorin, and he knew that he never would for the rest of his life.

Therefore, to say that he took kindly to his council's suggestion that he marry was an understatement. Bilbo had to violently rein in his flaring temper at the first couple of times these proposal came up. Declining adamantly, he could only state that Fili was his heir, and he couldn't be more proud to have him be the next king.

When the nobles wouldn't let him be for weeks on end, not even letting themselves be detained by the Hobbit's truly scary temper tantrums, Bilbo successfully changed tactic, and directed the nobles' attention to Kili. After spontaneously arranging a magnificent royal wedding for Kili and Tauriel, the nobles grudgingly left Bilbo alone for now.

Days blended into weeks, weeks into months, and months finally into years. And all of a sudden, it had been seven years since Thorin's death. 

Sometimes, Bilbo couldn't believe that it had been so long already as the bustling activity of everyday life of running a kingdom gave him no time to ponder anything beyond his duties.

But on some days, time seemed to stand still. Especially in the early hours of dawn – when Bilbo woke to an empty bed, disorientated for a moment – was when he felt numb, and suspended in time. Then, as he had so often already, he would make his way through his dark quarters on silent, sure feet until he reached the balcony. And no matter how cold it was or how rainy or how stormy, in these moments, he was drawn outside, under the stars, into the pale, pink light of the rising sun. Was drawn to the oak tree. It not only had grown incredibly fast into a young, strong sapling (Bilbo had always attributed it to the fact that it originated from Beorn's garden. Surely the strange magic that seeped through that place must affect a simple acorn, too) but in the short span of seven years, it had grown into a huge tree. Its trunk was as thick already as that of the party tree in the Shire which was hundreds of years old. Its leaves were as lush and green as Bilbo had never seen on a tree before. But it never blossomed, not even once. Not one acorn fell from the high, sturdy branches in the Autumn, only gold and red leaves. Maybe it needed some time still to bear fruit or it simply was another peculiarity of Beorn's. Whatever it was, it still was the only place in all of Middle Earth that seemed to give Bilbo some peace of mind. Standing under the protection of the huge canopy, touching the rough, almost warm bark, Bilbo felt the broken edges of his shattered heart not mend, but at least soften a bit that they didn't cut all that deep.

Often enough, as was Hobbit tradition, Bilbo brought little offerings which he hung into the branches; ribbons for Yuletide and Durin's Day, the occasional apple or other fruit, and every year on the day of their wedding anniversary, Bilbo hung a silver or golden bead into the tree, and for most of that day, he spent his time kneeling or sitting in front of the tree, praying, whispering the things he would have liked to tell Thorin in the hope that maybe on that day, the Valar granted Bilbo the mercy to lift the veil between the world of the living and that of the dead a bit so that Thorin may hear him in the halls of his forefathers. 

Once in a while, Bilbo even sought the soothing company of the tree to rant at it like he would have ranted at Thorin. With the added benefit that this way, he refrained from bashing in some obnoxious Dwarf's head, likely only breaking his hand on those rocks Dwarves called their skulls.

One of such occasions was the issue of marriage. Again. Every once in a while, despite the epic temper tantrums Bilbo had thrown in that first year, still some noble or other thought it a good idea to bring up again the necessity of marrying Bilbo off to some Dwarrow or other (preferably the daughter of the noble in question or even the noble themself). He'd thought that giving them a royal wedding when he had all but coerced Kili into marrying Tauriel all these years ago would have been enough. As for a year or so, they had indeed left him alone. 

Until it had started again.

Every such occasion ended with screams echoing through the mountain and with a pounding headache for Bilbo. Maybe he should really start needling Fili to finally marry the Dwarrowdam he was courting for ages now (or Bilbo should probably simply plan the wedding with Dis, and drag the boy down the aisle on the appointed day).

When, on a fine morning, a noble had dared to utter the word “marriage” quite insolently, it wasn't any different of how this conversation went from any of the others before that. 

They were nearing Durin's Day, and, much to Bilbo's amazement, nobody had actually brought up marriage yet this year. He should have known that it was too good to be true.

Outraged, the king stormed through the mountain, all but fleeing the council room in a fit. Behind him trailed a whole lot of nobles that just wouldn't shut up, Balin, Fili, and Dis, the latter looking part exasperated (at Bilbo as well as at the nobles), part compassionate with the king's plight. Surrounding Bilbo were his personal guards whose jobs was to protect their king, but obviously  _ not _ from his own duties or advisors.

They were causing quite the spectacle by now with more and more Dwarves lining their way, craning their necks curiously. In his haste to escape, just in the huge entrance hall of Erebor, Bilbo almost collided with Dwalin, Kili, and Bofur, so that he had to come to a slithering stop if he didn't want to simply run them down. Briefly meeting their confused gazes, Bilbo then spun around to the group hot on his heels, the Dwarves' sturdy boots echoing through the hall like a thousand strokes of a hammer coming to an abrupt stop.

His face contorted in fury, he stabbed a warning finger in the general direction of everyone who had given him chase. 

“For the last time,” he shouted (and really, had somebody told him eight years ago he would allow his quite fierce temper, that he normally kept under wraps since it was only polite, to explode in such a way, he would have been scandalised; but living with Dwarves,  _ ruling _ over Dwarves, you had no other choice but to build up an extroverted temper to be able to deal with them), “I will not marry any of you!” 

Once again, two or three of the nobles had thought it a formidable idea to (as they did every time) offer themselves as suitable candidates. It was becoming old by now, but Dwarves were nothing if not persistent.

Fuming, he glared at every one of them who glared back petulantly. Quite theatrically, Bilbo thrust his hand out to point in the direction of the open entrance gate. “I'd rather marry the first soul coming through those gates than any of you!”

His bellow faded into a soft echo in the suddenly hushed (and excited about so much action) silence laying heavily over the entrance hall, the only other noise being audible Bilbo's heavy breathing as he tried to get a grip on himself.

“Well,” a quite amused voice suddenly cut through the tense silence, “then I suppose I'm quite lucky that I stepped through the gates first instead of the strange old fellow who insisted on dragging me here.”

Bilbo froze as that painfully familiar voice that he would recognise everywhere even in a hundred years' time washed over him. He felt all the blood drain from his face, and his eyes widened. He still stood there, in his entrance hall, still facing a bunch of obnoxious Dwarves in a glaring match, and still with his hand stretched out, pointing at the gates. Under different circumstances, he would have been bothered that he must look quite stupid like that, but as it was, the only thing that had any place in his consciousness right now was _that_ _voice_.

For a few painfully long moments, he didn't dare turn to the owner of that voice since it couldn't be anything else but a hallucination. It was sheer impossible that Thorin Oakenshield had just wandered into Erebor to greet Bilbo with a highly infuriating quip. 

What convinced him in the end were the ghostly pale faces and widened eyes of the group of Dwarves before him. So, he wasn't the only one hearing, respectively seeing things?

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Bilbo forced his stiff body into motion to turn to the newcomer. A couple of feet away, he spied a Dwarf who just now pushed back the hood of his cloak. The first thing Bilbo noticed was the fierce shine of a silver bead in the Dwarf's hair that could only be mithril and that, even from a distance, matched the one Bilbo wore for almost eight years now. The second thing he noticed were the added streaks of grey in long ebony hair, and from that, his gaze roamed further until he met twinkling blue eyes that regarded the rather strange scene he had come upon with obvious amusement.

Bilbo was at a complete loss, and before his feet started moving completely on their own, he spied Gandalf standing behind Thorin. He was relieved because, surely, the wizard could give him some kind of plausible explanation why Bilbo's long dead husband was standing right in front of him, very healthy-looking and very alive so that Bilbo couldn't really decide if he wanted to smack Thorin or kiss him.

He decided for the latter. 

Kind of at least, as, for the time being, he settled for stumbling over to Thorin, and throw himself into his arms. A surprised, soft noise escaped the Dwarf as he quickly caught Bilbo's body that impacted with his own in a strong embrace.

Tears streaming freely down Bilbo's cheeks, the king buried his face in Thorin's threadbare clothes that smelled of dust and the forest (and some other more unfavourable things you tended to smell of when being on the road for long); if he could, he would have pressed even closer, would have carved a place for himself inside Thorin's body, in his very essence even, and never come out again.

Once more though, he froze when Thorin's big yet gentle hands grasped Bilbo's shoulders to carefully push him away, and Thorin's soft voice reached his ears, “Do we know each other?”

A wounded noise got stuck in Bilbo's throat, and, horrified, he looked up into Thorin's worried, confused face. Then his gaze flitted behind the Dwarf to meet Gandalf's compassionate face.

“I think it's best if we take this conversation elsewhere,” the wizard said gently, and indicated the rather huge audience they had attracted by now, and who was unashamedly watching what occurred completely spellbound.

Swallowing heavily, a strange numbness suffused Bilbo as uncertainty and fear gripped him. What did Thorin's strange behaviour mean? It couldn't be true that he just found him, and was possibly on the verge of losing him again so soon. 

Slowly, he nodded, and stepped away from Thorin. Forcing his body to obey, Bilbo managed to turn around, away from his husband, and he took leaden steps out of the entrance hall while stoically ignoring all the curious eyes following him. Judging by the noise of various heavily booted steps following him, he surmised that at least his family and probably the rest of the Company were accompanying them.

He didn't stop his brisk steps even once until they had reached the royal wing – part out of fear that, if he turned around now, Thorin would disappear all of a sudden. But, much to Bilbo's relief, the Dwarf was still there when he led them all into the living room of his quarters.

The door closing behind the last of the group sounded ominous, and Bilbo felt so incredibly helpless all of a sudden that it almost snuffed out any joy he felt at Thorin's return.

Therefore, he was unbelievably grateful when Gandalf assumed control over the whole situation. “My friend,” he addressed Thorin who was looking around the room, his brows cocked in mild curiosity, “why don't you make yourself comfortable. Surely, you must be hungry.”

Thorin hesitated, looking at Gandalf pointing invitingly at the dining room table, then at the others as if seeking confirmation. But then, he simply shrugged, and sat down at the table. Orcrist, which was strapped to his back, was sat closely to him, and his simple cloak placed over the chair next to him.

Taking the hint, Balin hurried over to the door to instruct the servants to bring something to eat, quickly. Whatever sense of propriety and hospitality was left in Bilbo in this moment wanted to hurry into his kitchen to at least make some tea for Thorin, but he knew that he would rather slosh the boiling water all over his hands than manage a respectable cup of tea. So, he did nothing, just stood there in the middle of the living room, staring at Thorin's back, and he waited with the others until, a couple of minutes later, a servant brought a simple yet nourishing meal.

The tension in the room was so thick that it could have been cut with a knife. The only one who seemed rather calm and unconcerned was Thorin who grunted his thanks and started to eat. He didn't exactly wolf down his food, but still ate like someone who hadn't had an acceptable number of proper meals a day in far too long. 

“What's going on here, Gandalf?!” 

It was Dis grasping the wizard's elbow, and slightly shaking him as she suddenly demanded answers with a fierce look that was flitting back and forth between the wizard and her long lost brother just in the next room.

Throwing a surreptitious look at Thorin, too, Gandalf sighed, and took off his pointed head, wearily placing it on a side table next to him under the expectant gazes of the royal family of Erebor. “Very well... I encountered Thorin by chance in the wilderness between Mirkwood and the Long Lake a while ago. He had been living there for the last seven years.”

“But why?!” Kili exclaimed. “Why didn't he come back?”

Gandalf cocked his head. “You've seen the reason, Kili. He can't remember anything from before these seven years. He didn't recognise me when I came upon him, nor did he recognise his own husband as we have all seen.”

“How did he get there?” Bilbo asked softly, a lump in his throat almost choking him. 

“He told me that he was gravely wounded when he woke up on Ravenhill – not that he knew what the place was called where he found himself. Without any memories, frightened, and hurt, with a huge dead Orc next to him, he dragged himself away from Erebor. He said – and that was where I became suspicious – that he felt  _ compelled _ to get as far away as he could. I reached out to him, and looked inside his soul.”

“What did you find?” Dwalin demanded harshly, his voice rough with emotion.

The wizard's sharp eyes met his. “Darkness,” Gandalf answered simply. “I felt a dark curse inside of Thorin that had been placed on him, obscuring his memories, and urging him to flee his home – and his loved ones.”

“Azog placed a curse on him,” Bilbo realised with horror.

“Yes. And that's the reason we couldn't find any trace of him after the battle. This curse hid his presence from us. That I encountered him two weeks ago was purely by chance, maybe because of the grace of the Valar.”

“How can we break this curse?” Fili asked. “There has to be a way.”

“Well, I managed to at least ban a part of the curse; the part that hid Thorin from us, and which compelled him to keep away from Erebor. Otherwise, I would never have managed to bring him here – not that it wasn't hard anyway, bloody suspicious Dwarf that he is.”

That almost managed to conjure a smile onto everybody's faces.

“And the rest?” 

Everybody froze, and they turned wide eyes onto Thorin who stood leaning in the entrance to the living room. His serious blue-eyed gaze surveyed them all, and it had lost nothing of its intensity, Bilbo found, his knees going slightly weak as he was subjected to that fierce gaze again after all this time.

“I wouldn't believe the wizard when he told me I was cursed,” Thorin continued, pushing himself away from the wall, and slowly advancing on his family. “Though I couldn't help but, deep down, believing him. Missing my memories made sense all of a sudden. He told me...” He finally stopped before Bilbo, and looked the Hobbit deep in the eye, “that I could find help here.”

By now, the distance between Thorin and Bilbo was almost non-existent. Complete silence reigned over the room as the other Dwarves looked at the two kings with bated breaths. 

As if under a spell, Thorin reached out to almost reverently touch the wedding bead in Bilbo's hair as he surely realised that it was the matching bead to the one he still wore in his hair. “I wonder if it's you that can finally help me find out who I am.”

Bilbo cleared his throat, and just barely trampled down the urge to tilt his head so that he could lean his face into Thorin's hand. “Yes,” he breathed. “I will do anything.”

Soft shuffling finally drew Bilbo's rapt attention away from Thorin, and, blinking, he watched his family file out of the room. Gandalf was the last one to leave, and Bilbo wanted to open his mouth in protest. He wanted to help Thorin remember so badly, yes, but how was he supposed to do that?! If Gandalf couldn't help Thorin, how was Bilbo supposed to accomplish such a feat?

But Gandalf, before gently closing the door behind himself, only threw Bilbo a soft, encouraging smile that wasn't helpful to the Hobbit in the slightest – or even ease his panic.

Finally, they were completely alone. Thorin didn't seem to have noticed the others leaving or he simply didn't care. His reverent gaze was still fixed onto Bilbo.

“For so long, there was a gaping emptiness inside of me,” he confessed softly, his voice almost breaking with emotion. “I felt nothing, no joy, no love. And nothing I did could lighten up that dark part of my soul, I felt as if I was drained of every positive emotion, and the worst thing was, I knew that these emotions existed before... just that I must have lost them together with my memories. And to be honest, my hope of finally filling this emptiness was what made me go with the wizard. I couldn't continue like this.” He suddenly smiled at Bilbo, and the Hobbit's breath caught. Oh, how he had missed that painfully gentle smile!

“And I'm glad I came here,” Thorin whispered, finally moving his hand, and cupping Bilbo's cheek in his big, rough palm.

Bilbo swallowed heavily. “Why?” he rasped, his whole body trembling as he leaned into Thorin's touch with a relieved sigh.

“Because the moment I touched you, I felt the emptiness and the darkness recede.”

“R-really?”

Thorin's smile grew, and it took on a slightly teasing note. “So, the question is, are you a wizard, too? A more powerful one maybe?”

Slightly hysterically, Bilbo barked out a mad laughter. “No, surely not. I'm just... a burglar. A-and a dragon whisperer, if you like.” He frowned sarcastically. “Although maybe not much whispering was done, rather a lot of screaming and running for my life.”

“Sounds intriguing. Tell me more.”

For a split-second, Bilbo was back down in the treasury, and he was facing a deadly curious dragon instead of a Dwarf that was – probably out of instinct – madly flirting with Bilbo just now.

Taking in a deep, calming breath, Bilbo reached up to clasp Thorin's hand. He took a step back, and pulled Thorin with him. 

“Come,” he said. “I have to show you something.”

Not letting go of Thorin's hand, the king gently but insistently pulled him through his quarters – hopefully soon to be  _ their _ quarters again – and out onto the terrace overlooking the slowly recovering wilderness of Erebor with the lake in the far distance glittering in the weak sun. 

The tension that held Bilbo's body in its grip lessened a fraction when he spotted his tree which, as he now realised, was foolish. The tree had given him comfort while he thought Thorin dead, but now, Thorin was at his side again. Nonetheless, he still didn't have his husband back. Not really. Therefore, he just  _ had _ to bring Thorin here. Stupid as it maybe was, he felt closer to Thorin in this place even with Thorin right by his side.

They stopped in front of the tree whose branches were gently swaying in the surprisingly mild Autumn wind, their rustling a soothing, gentle melody that carried through the air. 

“What is this place?” Thorin breathed in wonder, taking in the huge oak tree towering over him on the secluded terrace he had been led onto.

“This tree was what gave me comfort for the last seven years,” Bilbo explained, a lump of emotion suddenly closing up his throat. Instinctively, he tightened his hold around Thorin's hand, and was overjoyed when Thorin squeezed back absent-mindedly. “Comfort because I – we all – thought you were dead.”

Thorin tore his gaze away from the lush tree to look at Bilbo. He frowned.

“So... we indeed do know each other. You all know me.” He cocked his head. “Who am I, then?”

“You... You're the king of Erebor. You're the one who made all of this possible. You're a hero, Thorin.” Now it was Bilbo frowning. “Gandalf at least told you your name, did he not?”

Thorin nodded, but another, more heavier frown had furrowed his brow. “A hero?” he asked, and shook his head disbelievingly. “This is hard to believe. It's like a story from a dream.” His blue eyes bore into Bilbo. “But the fact that I'm supposed to be a king doesn't really tell me who I am.” As if to drive his point home, he turned so that he now stood facing Bilbo directly.

Bilbo didn't even pretend not to understand what Thorin was getting at. Instinctively, tears gathered in his eyes, and blurred his vision for a moment. “You're my husband, Thorin,” he croaked hoarsely. 

“I am?” Thorin blinked, awed, and something akin to happiness suddenly spread over his features at the prospect.

“Yes.” Bilbo swallowed down his tears, and stepped closer, so close until their chests brushed, and he had to crane his neck to look up at Thorin. He reached out so that now it was him who touched Thorin's bead as if spellbound. 

“My husband... But I don't even know  _ your _ name,” Thorin whispered, his hot breath fanning against the Hobbit's lips since they were only inches apart.

Bilbo shivered at the feeling of being so incredibly close to Thorin. “B-bilbo Baggins of the Shi... of Erebor. At your service.”

Thorin once more gifted him with that charming little smile. “Gladly.”

Afterwards, Bilbo didn't know who made the first move; Thorin bend his head the same moment Bilbo craned his up so that their lips were meeting in a gentle yet passionate kiss driven by fierce desperation and yearning. It was as if they were irresistibly pulled together by an invisible force. Bilbo shuddered when his mouth touched Thorin's for the first time in too many years, a heartfelt prayer to Yavanna and Mahal racing through his head, thanking them for bringing him Thorin back, and begging to return him to Bilbo all the way now. He felt as if lightning ran through his whole body, heating him from the inside, and culminating in the point where their lips touched. He gasped into Thorin's mouth, and felt an answering shudder run through the Dwarf. Thorin's strong hands came up to grasp Bilbo's shoulders in their firm grip, clinging to the Hobbit as if for dear life. 

Time seemed to stand still around the two lovers. Even the wind quit its breeze, the song of the leaves quietening to a total, peaceful silence.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered when he pulled back from Bilbo eventually, his voice full of awe and wonder, and tears were streaming freely down his face as he greedily took in the sight of Bilbo's face.

Bilbo swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Hot tears ran down his own cheeks once more. “You remember,” he realised, and got his answer in form of a blinding smile Thorin gifted him with.

“I do,” the Dwarf replied nonetheless, sounding as moved as Bilbo felt. 

“Don't go away again. Please,” Bilbo pleaded in a small, childlike voice.

Thorin pulled him close against his chest. “I will find you even in Yavanna's Fields.”

Bilbo chuckled through his tears of happiness. “Likewise. I'll come banging on the gates of Mando's Halls until they let me in.”

“I know you will,” Thorin grinned teasingly. “Obtrusive Hobbit.”

Bilbo shrugged nonchalantly. “Some people are worth defying the Valar for, insufferable Dwarf.”

And when they both leaned in for another, redeeming kiss, the oak tree above them burst into blossoms. Thousands of soft white petals raining down on the lovers in a true blessing of the Valar.

** End **

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, I've become quite soppy at the end, but somehow the words started to get a mind of their own, and ran away from me.  
> Anyway, all that talk about coming banging on the doors of Mando's Halls is borrowed from the lovely story [It's been a long day without you, my friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826190) by vtforpedro. The concept just fit so perfectly here at the end.
> 
> A little update! I added a couple of words, just one paragraph, really, to add to Bilbo's coronation; that the whole ceremony is accompanied by a Dwarven choir singing the [Song of Durin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxfoa23skHg) which I just stumbled upon on You Tube, sung by Clamavi de Profundis. You have to listen to it. You feel as if you're right there, in Erebor! Normally, I don't add scenes to an already finished and posted story, but I had to add the song, it was so, so brilliant and appropriate for the occasion.


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